


What Happens in Vegas (is legally binding in the United Kingdom)

by moonblossom



Series: Prompt Fills, Remixes, Works inspired by others [19]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Bathtub Sex, Crack, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Husbands to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Las Vegas, M/M, Porn, minor CSI crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 00:14:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1100206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a case sends the boys to Vegas, John comes out of it with a bit more than he bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Happens in Vegas (is legally binding in the United Kingdom)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Voodooling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Voodooling/gifts).



Slowly, painfully, John cracks one eye open. The simple motion is agonizing. The shaft of bright desert sunlight that hits in him the face is doubly so. He's pretty sure the inside of his mouth is drier than the hills out beyond the glittering lights of the city. Groaning, he makes to roll over and throw his arm over his face to shield his eyes, but a heavy weight prevents him from doing so. Bleary, bewildered, he squints and turns his head.

Sherlock is soundly asleep, his mouth open and his hair hilariously mussed. It should be wholly unflattering, but even drooling and dead to the world he manages to be attractive. John feels a strange pang in his chest. Suddenly, he's assaulted by shattered glimpses of their adventure last night.

It had started innocently enough. They were in Las Vegas helping out a friend. Irene had contacted them discreetly, informing them of a colleague of hers who was being blackmailed. Lady Heather, as she called herself, was in a line of work not dissimilar to Irene's, and as such was not particularly trusting of the local constabulary. She'd apparently had a good working relationship with the former head of the crime scene unit here, but he'd retired and she was now left to her own devices, judged and shunned by the people supposedly devoted to keeping the peace in this hell-hole of a city.

Fragments of their evening float through John's head, indistinct and often without context. Sherlock and John meeting the (exceptionally lovely) Lady Heather. Heather teasing him perceptively about being in love with Sherlock, and suggesting they rent out one of her better-appointed rooms. Then there's something about a fundraising ball, being held by some Sam Braun fellow. Heather's insistence that her mysterious blackmailer would be in attendance. Sherlock in a tuxedo.

 _Good god,_ John thinks. _Sherlock in a tuxedo_. No man has the right to look as gorgeous and put-together in a bloody rented polyester tux as Sherlock had looked last night. As if in agreement, his groin throbs gently. John cringes and peeks under the sheet. He's wearing a pair of teal cotton boxer briefs he doesn't remember purchasing, and a quick glance over to his left confirms that Sherlock's wearing even less. He's hung-over; trapped in a strange hotel bed with his naked flatmate, the one he has staunchly refused to admit he's in love with; and to top things off he's developing a fairly obscene morning erection. There are only so many ways this could end, none of them particularly well.

John closes his eyes and tries to concentrate, tries to figure out why they're in bed together and what exactly happened last night. The room is not small, and there's a sofa over by one wall that John suspects folds out into a proper bed, so it's not as if this entanglement is a matter of practicality. There's a bow-tie hanging off the lamp at John's shoulder, framing the situation like some sort of obscene punctuation.

As he tries to calm his ragged breathing, more pictures float to the surface of John's mind. Sherlock dancing, flitting from showgirl to socialite to... do they have dowager countesses in America? John isn't sure how else to describe the glittering flock women of a certain age who seemed to think they were generously gracing everyone with their presence. He'd seen Sherlock slip into some sociable persona to extract info from people before, but the sight never failed to set John's heart pounding. Something he was still unwilling to admit to anyone else.

John had sat in a corner, chatting with Lady Heather and downing cocktail after potent cocktail. Eventually, the whole evening had become a bright blur of neon and glitter. Sherlock had managed to collect more than enough information from all the pretty little women to ruin Lady Heather's extortionist for life.

To celebrate, the three of them (plus two alarmingly identical and adorable showgirls in the tiniest costumes John could have imagined) had piled into a cherry-red convertible Heather had rented from somewhere. Everything about the experience screamed _VEGAS_ , especially in John's inebriated, giddy state. The neon lights of the strip, the fluttering lashes of the girls, the car like something out of an old American movie. Sherlock was still on point, snapping away deductions about everyone they passed, to the merriment of the women in the car. John just remembers letting his head fall onto the backrest and staring at the huge, wide open sky, interrupted by spikes of tall concrete and glittering light.

The next image that comes to John's mind is one of those tiny white rental chapels, staffed by yet another showgirl and a man in a terrible Elvis costume. Again, something he'd thought only existed in movies. He remembers signing some kind of form, purchasing a ring. Good Lord, did John get _married_ last night? Is the situation he finds himself in the remains of some kind of crazy stag do orchestrated by Sherlock?

Christ, who has he married?! Certainly not Lady Heather - she'd struck him as remote, professional, not the type to get married to a stranger on a whim. Not even a particularly charming English stranger... One of the showgirls then? John can't even remember their names. He's not sure he ever knew them in the first place. Candi? Bambi? Why the fuck does everyone's name end in a vowel here in Vegas?

But no, none of John's musings make any sense, none of them bring any more memories to mind. As he's thinking, Sherlock lets out a soft, sleepy huff of breath. It's not quite a snore, clearly he's too posh to snore like a proper human being, but the noise is enough to snap John back to alertness.

He can see it all now. Walking down the aisle to some tinny, pre-recorded organ music. A long, lean, ridiculously elegant silhouette waiting for him at the little podium at the front. Heather smiling beatifically, the look on her face not unlike Sherlock's expressions when he's solved a difficult puzzle. The two showgirls sobbing theatrically.

Christ. The answer, of course, is bloody obvious. Had he really got so drunk last night that he'd confessed his feelings to Sherlock? Even if he had... why the fuck has Sherlock gone along with it?

There's a ringing in John's ears, drowning out the snuffling noises to his left. His heart is beating furiously, threatening to burst out of his chest in some medically impossible scene right out of one of those ridiculous drama programmes that seem so popular here. He gasps, trying to catch his breath as his brain finally comes to terms with the fact that he and Sherlock got married in a drunken stupor last night. His bloody cock is still frustratingly active, apparently spurred on by the presence of John's nude... husband. John rolls the word around in his head, and nope, it still doesn't feel any less strange now that he's certain.

John's fidgeting and gasping for breath must be enough to disrupt Sherlock's slumber. He wakes slowly, a satisfied smirk creeping across his face as he catches John watching him with panicked eyes.

"Good morning, dear husband."

John swallows thickly, his suspicions all but confirmed. Sherlock - still alarmingly nude - rolls onto his side and curls up against John, making it clear John's not the only one in a bit of a state right now.

Slowly, Sherlock leans in close, as if he's about to kiss John. "Sherlock! What are..." John's heart pounds in his ears. He's fantasised about being in this scenario more times than he can count, but Sherlock's not... He's... _Sherlock_. Not interested. Too busy. The litany of rebuffs and excuses choruses through John's head.

Yet, there's plenty of incontrovertible evidence that Sherlock is more than amenable to the proceedings poking John quite insistently in the hip. And John's fairly certain Sherlock was not _that_ drunk last night. But he'd gone along with their... wedding? The words still don't sound right in John's head.

"Is this not what newlyweds do?" Sherlock voice is a throaty, laughing purr, as if he's having a bit of a chuckle at John's reaction. "Have a ridiculously indulgent lie-in, some slow morning sex, maybe order room service?"

"I'm not wasting money on room service only to have you not eat it." John blurts out, almost instinctively.

Sherlock grins. "There's the John Watson I married."

"Stop it!" John groans, heart pounding, head throbbing. He finally frees his arm from under his accidental husband and reaches up to rub his face. The thin gold band around his left ring finger catches on his brow. It's cool and foreign and shocking. "Be serious, Sherlock. I... we'll go, we'll get it annulled. It's Vegas, they probably have drive-by annulments, right?"

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, John regrets them. It's not that he feels right, trapping Sherlock in a marriage like this, but maybe he could have let himself indulge in the fantasy for at least a day or two. Sherlock seems to be playing along, for whatever reason.

John rolls over and stares at Sherlock's face, and that's when it hits him. Sherlock looks... devastated. There's no other word for it. It's only there for a moment, but John can read Sherlock's expressions better than anyone else can. There's also the sudden lack of an erection prodding John in the hip; that should be a relief, instead it's anything but. John feels unmoored, fractured. Sherlock, uncharacteristically, _looks_ like John feels.

"Oh, yes, um, of course. Right away. I'll call Mycroft if need be. I'm sure he knows someone here."

The fact that Sherlock is volunteering to contact his brother to expedite the process speaks volumes. John's heart sinks into his stomach. They've been married for less than twelve hours and already he's fucked things up.

Sherlock sits up abruptly, turning away from John and perching on the edge of the mattress. As the sheet falls away, a rush of cold air raises gooseflesh across John's skin. He brings his knees up, attempting to hide himself, but thankfully the whorl of confusing emotions has diminished his arousal significantly.

There's something painfully vulnerable about the broad expanse of Sherlock's bare back. It's not the first time John's seen Sherlock's bare torso, but in this luxurious hotel room, far from home, something about it seems intimate in a way John can't quite articulate to himself. John's fingers are itching to reach out and stroke it. He balls his hand up into a fist to stop himself and feels the pinch of the wedding band as he does so.

"Sherlock, I'm s--"

"John, I apol--"

John laughs, all pitch and panic and nerves. He's not sure what's more surprising; their speaking in unison, or the fact that Sherlock was apparently in the process of apologising for something. Emboldened, John sits up and does exactly what he's been aching to do. He places his hand solidly on the small of Sherlock's back, in the dip right above his arse. His bare, lush, ridiculously inviting arse. John bites his lip and tries to focus.

The sigh Sherlock lets out is so tiny, so muffled, that John is certain it would have escaped his notice, had he not felt it through his hand.

"What did I do wrong, John?" Sherlock's voice is fragile and soft, so unlike him that it makes John's head spin. "You seemed unusually happy last night, even by your easy-to-please standards."

"I was profoundly drunk, last night. Whatever I tricked you into doing, Sherlock..."

And then Sherlock's words hit John, falling into place like a sliding puzzle.

"You? You didn't do anything wrong, Sherlock! What I don't understand is why you went along with it. I was drunk. It's no excuse, but it's why I said what I did. You were stone sober, I remember that much at least. Why didn't you stop me? Why did you let me go through with it?"

John pulls his hand away, just in time for Sherlock to turn around and face him. Sherlock's eyes are wide and bright, a soft smile playing about his expressive lips.

"You, John Watson, are an idiot. You are my husband, and you love me, and I love you, and you are an idiot. Do you honestly think I would _let_ you do anything I was not already invested in?"

 _and I love you_. The words ring back and forth inside John's head, a Seraphic choir reaching a climactic crescendo. Suddenly, finally, everything makes sense. John's flashback this time spans months, years. Sherlock's fingers lingering at his collar just a moment too long; Sherlock's eyes wide with excitement, breathless at a crime scene; Sherlock's pained expression every time John went on a date; countless priceless moments between them. All pushed out of sight and out of mind because John was blinded by his own love for Sherlock, too stupid to see that Sherlock was just as stupidly, painfully in love with John.

Sherlock lunges forward, knocking John down onto the bed and kissing him fiercely. John splutters, and turns his head away, laughing and gasping for air.

"My mouth feels like I've licked the inside of a pub toilet after the World Cup, Sherlock. I'm not going to subject you to that until I've brushed my teeth."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and looks irritated but gestures vaguely towards the giant marble bathroom attached to the - and now John has no doubt in his mind as to where they are - honeymoon suite.

Mustering what little dignity he can in the snug peacock-coloured boxer-briefs that were clearly a drunken impulse purchase, John shuffles into bathroom. It's ridiculous, all cream marble and gold fixtures, and nearly as large as the bedroom itself. The bathtub on an angle, sticking out invitingly into the centre of the room. It's large enough for at least two people, and John indulges for a moment, imagining Sherlock slipping in there with him. His cock twitches with interest, but John shoves the thought aside. For now.

John scrambles through the little overnight bag he'd packed, hunting for a toothbrush and toothpaste. He brushes his teeth, and then brushes them again for good measure. He brushes his hair with his fingers, but all he manages to do is make his cowlick worse and find an improbable amount of glitter caught up in there.

The huge bath tub is looking more and more inviting. John knows he should go back out there, back to Sherlock, figure out where they go from here, but decides that it will be much easier to handle if he's more alert and awake.

There's a selection of high-end soaps and bath products all neatly lined up along the rim of the tub. John shrugs, figuring they've already been paid for, and selects a bergamot and sage-scented gel. The tea so far in the US has been abysmal, but maybe a slightly tea-scented bath will clear his head.

It takes forever to fill the obnoxiously huge tub, but as John sinks down under the steaming water, he decides the wait was worth it. All the tension and anxiety he's been holding in his shoulders floats away as his muscles drink in the heat of the water. The scent of the bubbles reminds him of Sherlock, comforting and herbaceous. He almost calls out to Sherlock, an invitation to join John in the tub. They're married now, surely that's not inappropriate? John rolls the idea around in his head again. Nope. Still incredibly strange.

John sinks down as deep as he can, keeping only the top half of his head out of the water. It'd be bloody embarrassing to drown right now. He closes his eyes and rests his head against the smooth, ergonomic edge of the giant tub and ponders briefly if there's a way to have it brought home as a souvenir. It would take up the entire bathroom at 221B, and possibly a large chunk of the corridor, but it would be worth it. Especially after an evening of chasing Sherlock around in the middle of winter.

There's a discreet knock at the door of the hotel room. John grumbles, pushing himself up out of the tub, but to his shock he hears Sherlock's feet padding across the room, Sherlock's muffled voice conversing softly with someone. Grateful, he sinks back into the water and lets his eyes slide shut.

John's hangover is all but gone, thankfully. All that remains is the thrumming anxiety of what to do about the sudden and dramatic shift in his relationship with Sherlock. Maybe it would be best to enjoy it for the time being. Sort it out when they get home. John pinches the bridge of his nose, tries to clear his head. He grabs the bottle of bath gel and lathers up his hair, massaging his scalp indulgently for a moment. They're in a no doubt absurdly expensive hotel in Las Vegas, he may as well make the most of it while he can.

As he's rubbing his fingers in small circles across his scalp, the water sloshes up across his chest. Startled, John opens his eyes just in time to get a faceful of bubbles. The source of the disturbance in the water is immediately apparent - Sherlock's sitting on the opposite side of the tub, one arm draped across the backrest. The foam is keeping him decent, but one nipple is peeking out invitingly above the bubbles, and John squeezes his hand into a fist to stop himself reaching out and running his thumb over it.

Sherlock smirks knowingly, as if he can tell exactly what John's thinking. John scowls and pulls his eyes away from Sherlock, only to have them land on the bottle of champagne with a French label John can't read.

"Sherlock!" John tries to sound exasperated, but it's not quite working. "Where did that champagne come from? What the hell are you doing in here? How is this appropriate?"

"We're married now," he murmurs, drawing out the words. "How is it _not_ appropriate?"

John sighs, cocks his head, and looks back at Sherlock, pointedly keeping his gaze level with Sherlock's face. "So, we're really doing this?"

"This?" Sherlock's voice is deep and playful. "I suppose that all depends on what you mean by 'this'."

John flounders for a moment before ducking under the water to rinse his head off. If Sherlock's going to unseat him by forcing this conversation while they're naked in a tub together, at least John's not going to do with bubbles in his hair.

Sherlock grins at him, dark and full of promise. John feels his pulse picking up, his cock floating at half-mast in the warm water in response. He curses inwardly.

"You know what I mean, Sherlock."

"I have no idea. Are you referring to my plan to have sex with my new husband in this ridiculously opulent tub? Or something more boring and serious?" As he's talking, Sherlock is dragging his fingers through the water on the marble edge of the tub, and John's finding it difficult not to be hypnotised by the motion.

"And yet, when I ask you a legitimate question you accuse me of being obtuse. Hypocrisy, thy name is Holmes."

"Mm. Holmes-Watson, I should think? I prefer the alphabetical approach."

Something about the combination of names sends a frisson through John's body, one that ends in his cock. He's immensely grateful for the protection the frothy bubbles afford. Sherlock can probably read his arousal anyway, but at least this way he can pretend he's got a bit of privacy left.

"We're.... Doing this. Being married. Then?"

"I'm fairly certain we've already done that part." Sherlock holds up his left hand and waggles his fingers, the bright bathroom light glinting off the gold band. "Now we get to do the _fun_ part."

"We..." John looks down, staring at the bubbles. They're starting to dissipate. "We don't have to do that yet. We could start this properly. Like normal people. Go on some dates."

"John," Sherlock's voice is chiding, but soft. "Firstly, when have we ever done anything the normal way? Secondly, we have been on more dates than most couples I know."

"Stakeouts and takeaway don't count."

"Hmm..." Sherlock slips his hands under the water and John gasps as long, smooth fingers encircle his calves. Sherlock continues stroking gently as he speaks. "I know this man. He's not the brightest man ever, but he's sharper than most. He's also quite handsome. He once described a date to me as when 'two people who like each other go out and have fun'. I may not be an expert, but I'm fairly certain that by his criteria, we have been on many, many dates."

"I could still have it annulled, you know. I was drunk, you do realise that sort of nullifies consent." John's not even sure why he's arguing this. His body wants it, his heart wants it. His brain just hasn't quite caught up yet. Of course, Sherlock knows exactly what John's thinking before John's even fully aware of it.

"But you want this. I've grown tired of waiting for you to come to terms with it." Sherlock's voice has lost any teasing affect. It's not playful, or seductive, or sarcastic. It's frank, and brutally honest, and a little bit frayed around the edges. That's when John realises that they really have been hopelessly, stupidly in love with each other for ages. He sits up, not hiding anymore, and looks straight at Sherlock.

"God, do I want this."

And just like that, whatever barriers John had left come crumbling down. He's naked and horny in a huge bathtub with an equally naked Sherlock. His husband, Sherlock. Sherlock, who last night confessed his love in the most backwards and dramatic and unsurprisingly _Sherlock_ way possible.

John lunges forwards, splashing a wave of water out of the tub and down onto the floor. Any other time, he'd feel terrible and insist on tidying it up immediately, but right now all he can think about is kissing Sherlock. There is a fair bit of sloshing about as John repositions himself, straddling Sherlock's thighs under the water.

Sherlock looks suddenly overwhelmed by the whole thing, as if he hadn't been entirely sure his ploy to get John to come to his senses would work. John leans in to kiss him properly, kiss him the way he's been wanting to since the day he moved into 221B. Sherlock's lips are soft and warm, yielding gently to the pressure of John's mouth. As John brings his hands up and runs his fingers through the damp curls at Sherlock's neck, Sherlock parts his lips slightly. John swallows the tiny gasp that escapes and runs his tongue along Sherlock's lower lip.

Sherlock nods almost imperceptibly, and John feels it more than he sees it, but it's enough. As he deepens the kiss, sliding his tongue against Sherlock's, John cards his fingers through Sherlock's hair. He's fantasised about the feel of those curls in his hands a million times, but nothing comes close to the reality.

The kisses are warm, wet, languid, and unhurried. John pulls back slightly, kissing the corner of Sherlock's mouth as he feels Sherlock's hands slide down his back and settle at his arse. There's a gentle but insistent pressure against the inside of John's thigh as Sherlock's cock thickens completely, slick and impossibly hot. A point of burning heat, even in the warm water around them.

John pulls away from Sherlock just enough to slide his hand down between them. He drops his head slightly, pressing their foreheads together as his fingers slide down the curves of Sherlock's chest and dip under the water.

Part of him wants to draw this out, to take Sherlock apart slowly and meticulously, but suddenly John has the revelation that they have all the time in the world. He can get Sherlock off now, watch Sherlock come undone right here beneath him and then do it all over again in the huge plush hotel bed in half an hour. Secure in that knowledge, he wraps his hand around the pulsing shaft of Sherlock's prick. It's hot and heavy in his hand, and more than a little odd, but in the best possible way.

As John begins stroking gently, Sherlock gasps and lets his head fall back against the tub surround. Sherlock's eyes flutter shut and his mouth falls open, and John groans, fighting back the urge to get himself off just watching Sherlock's reactions.

Sherlock's grip tightens on John's arse tightens as he continues pulling and stroking Sherlock's cock. Each time John exposes the glans, he runs his thumb over the head and then slides his fist down firmly, hand slipping easily under the water. Soon Sherlock starts rocking underneath him, hips rising up to meet John's hand with each stroke. Impulsively, John leans forward and kisses Sherlock's throat, the creamy skin mottled red with heat and arousal.

Whimpering quietly, Sherlock digs his fingertips hard into John's rear end and stiffens, and John squeezes the base of his prick tightly. One stroke, two, and Sherlock's shuddering beneath him, coming with a muffled groan. John stares, transfixed, at the ejaculate spilling into the water between them. There should be something unpleasant about the sight, but instead it's like a kick to the gut, fuelling the knot of desperate arousal already forming there. Briefly, and not for the first time, John wonders if there's something a bit wrong with him.

He doesn't have much time to ponder though, because Sherlock's hands are off his arse and on his cock and _Christ_. It's as if John's synapses have all been re-wired and they all lead straight to the base of his penis. Grunting, he grips the side of the tub, grateful for even the slightest stability.

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock turns out to be as good at hand jobs as he is at nearly everything else. John's thighs are quivering, straining with the effort of holding him up, and he rests his head on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock's mirroring what John was doing earlier, rolling his thumb over the sensitive, exposed glans and squeezing the base of the shaft in a way that's got John painfully close in an embarrassing timeframe.

He whimpers, burying his face in Sherlock's neck, and tries to steady his breathing. Unfortunately, it's at that exact moment that Sherlock tips his head and pulls John's earlobe between his lips. Sherlock drags his teeth over the soft pad of flesh and just like that, John is trembling, twitching, coming for what feels like an age and a half. There are flashes going off inside his head as his thighs finally give out, and he drops back under the water with a gasp.

By the time John comes to his senses, half the water from the bath has ended up on the floor, and what remains in the tub is lukewarm and getting cooler by the minute. Sherlock stands and John can't help but be transfixed, watching the water cascade over the curves and planes of his body. John blinks and rubs his eyes, still marvelling at the string of implausible events that has allowed him to lay claim to that body. And, more importantly, the heart and mind within it.

John hoists himself out of the tub and reaches for a towel to dry off, tying it snugly around his hips. Sherlock is parading about, entirely self-conscious. But then, he was never particularly worried about exposing himself even before all this happened. Chuckling, John walks around him and takes the opportunity to squeeze one of those inviting arse cheeks as he passes.

Back in the main area of their room, John's attention is diverted by a huge floral arrangement on the console table by the door. There are lilies and orchids and things John can't quite identify. The whole thing is so calculated and tasteful, he's fairly certain he knows who it came from. Grumbling, he crosses the room and searches for a card.

There's a sudden warmth and heaviness across his back. Sherlock's draped himself there, arms wrapped around John's waist.

"They arrived with the champagne. Dull. My brother is gloating in the most ostentatious way possible. He’s been predicting this for ages, you know."

But John's found the card, and the writing on it is delicate, ladylike but determined, and wholly unfamiliar. He opens the envelope and chuckles as he reads it.

"Not Mycroft. Marital bliss must be distracting you."

John feels Sherlock's frustrated grunt through his back and he holds up the card for Sherlock to read.

* * *

_Hello boys,_

_Thank you again for all of your assistance. The room has been paid for through the week - the hotel concierge owed me a favour. I hope you spend your time wisely._

_Lady Heather_

_P.S. I snapped a photo of the ceremony with my cellphone. I thought you might like a copy._

* * *

A small print-out flutters to the floor as John upends the envelope. The two of them are standing side-by-side in their rented tuxedos. John is flushed and leaning heavily on Sherlock, quite obviously inebriated. Sherlock is staring wide-eyed at the camera, looking a bit like a deer in the headlights as he holds John up. But most importantly, they both look ridiculously, overwhelmingly _happy_.

Sherlock digs his chin into the tenderest bit of John's good shoulder, peering at the photo.

"It's terrible. Get rid of it."

"Nope. Never." John's not talking about the photo, and he's fairly certain Sherlock knows it. Just to be sure, though, he puts the envelope down and turns around. He kisses Sherlock's cheekbone gently.

"Since we've got this room for a while longer, what do you say we get back into bed and order room service, and have a proper honeymoon?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes, as if to remind John that he'd suggested the exact same thing earlier, but throws himself emphatically onto the bed nonetheless. John holds the menu out to him, and he waves it away.

"Just order whatever you'd like. We both know I'm not going to eat it anyway. I have better things with which to occupy my time now."

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone is curious, I found a photo of a Vegas hotel bathroom (the Prima Suite at the Venetian, apparently) that pretty much [matches the bathroom I had pictured in my head](http://blog.oyster.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/04/bathroom-venetian-prima-suite-venetian-resort-hotel-casino-v202439-912.jpg). The angle of the tub is a bit different, but it's close!
> 
> Also, I am aware that Nevada currently only has domestic partnership laws, but when voodooling asked about fics where John and Sherlock accidentally get married in Vegas, I just fell head-first into this. Sorry not sorry.


End file.
